The Cat's Pyjamas
by Ennui Enigma
Summary: A one-shot just for fun. Very silly. Sherlock is bored - as usual. John goes off in search of something to help. After all, he needs to consider his own sanity. A raving and bored flatmate is not very conducive to a happy existence. Read at your own risk. May promote cerebral atrophy.


**A/N: I wanted to write this in honour of Lucy36's birthday. However… such did not happen to put things succinctly. So, a very merry unbirthday to you, Lucy. Hugs to Hector and Dinah too!**

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_Disclaimer: Don't own; don't make any profit; just avoiding the ennui_**_. _**

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Sherlock yawned. "Bored, John," he growled under his breath. "Not the slightest whiff of one, single, dirty rat for over forty-eight hours." He flounced off the sofa, gangly limbs sprawling and almost landed on the floor before righting himself at the last moment and landing on his feet. He shook his mop of dark hair with a disdainful nod at the mundane news in the newspaper, his intense eyes narrowed into tiger-like fierceness and he hissed in frustration. As he paced back and forth in their flat, John blinked twice to clear his sudden vision of Sherlock, a black panther pacing restlessly in a giant metal-barred zoo pen.

"Slow down, Sherlock!" his more practical flat mate commanded. "You've already burned through two sets of carpet. If you keep this up, Mrs Hudson is going to lay parapet down and I don't think I could survive the clatter of your footsteps on hardwood flooring for long."

"Bored, John. I'm bored. Nothing to do."

"Nothing that you WANT to do," corrected John, settling himself on his desk and curling his fingers over the computer keyboard, creating a soothing staccato in echo to the rapid footwork of his friend. "I believe the dishes could use a thorough cleaning; or perhaps those piles of paper in the corner might stand being filed; or maybe, if you're really bored, the bathroom could stand a bit of freshening up…"

The dark detective scowled in irritation. "That's not funny. You know I need a case. I require the brainwork." He abruptly altered his futile pacing and leaped onto the chair by the fireplace, perching himself precariously on the edge, looking like a kerfluffled crow with it's shiny feathers in disarray. "I've told you before, John, my mind is like an engine, racing out of control; a rocket tearing itself to pieces, trapped on the launchpad... I need a case!"

The blondish head of his long-suffering partner shook with a rueful nod. To himself he muttered, "You need a case?! How about me? I just want a case so I don't go crazy living with you!"

"I heard that," Sherlock piped up from across the room. "I have a rather finely attuned sense of hearing."

"Fine. One of those rare episodes where your selective auditory receptors opt to hear me," John grumbled. "Perhaps now would be the perfect opportunity for you to become a missing person's case." He tried to concentrate on his typing as the tiny letters slowly filled up the screen with flickering white pixels. "Most intriguing," he mused.

Sherlock's finicky auditory senses chose to ignore John's last remark. Instead, he sniffed significantly, hopped down from his chair, and glided over to the large front window of their flat. The grey overcast atmosphere outside with thick clouds shrouding out the sunshine did nothing to brighten Sherlock's ill temper. "Absolutely hateful," he protested in disgust at the placid scene below. Bundled people in coats and scarves shuffling along the pavement, rumbling taxis and the occasional van skimming along the street, a stray cat peeking round the corner of the opposite alleyway. His quick grasp of the panorama clearly disappointed him.

Suddenly he spun around with a snarl. "John, I need some…get me some!"

"No, Sherlock. You're doing just fine. We agreed, remember, cold turkey."

"Please," Sherlock switched on a pitiful façade with saucer-sized beseeching eyes and a sad, winsome smile, "please," he repeated in a more wistful approach.

"No." John was firm, "The stuff's not good for you. Bad for your health… and addicting – obviously," he explained.

"But, John…" Sherlock whined and then scraped his nails across the polished mantelpiece sending sharp splinters careening up John's spine that left him with a splitting headache.

"That's enough!" The noticeably annoyed doctor wished fervently that he could plug up his ears. "I've half a mind to get you a scratching post one of these days…a nice soft carpeted one that will fall to pieces without all this mind-splintering scraping." He huffed and stalked off to the kitchen. To his dismay, the milk had turned sour – again.

"I'm going out; need milk," he sighed realising that his partner's selective hearing loss had filtered him out. Sherlock glared, immobile and menacing out the window at the world, daring it to bring anything, anything at all, interesting into his world. His slender, agile body twitched involuntarily in response to unseen neuronal synapses firing relentlessly across a network of finely tuned sensory receptors. "Well, behave yourself while I'm gone," he said, more out of habit than with the expectation his flatmate would listen. "As they say, 'when the cat's away the mice will play'."

"I wish they would play," a low cynical mutter tumbled across the room from the front window.

~0~

Some time later, a rather bedraggled dripping blond-haired creature trudged grimly up the steps of 221B Baker Street. "I'm back," the moisture-laden apparition proclaimed to no one in particular. His friend remained in the same position he'd left him over an hour ago. Perhaps the gleam in his eyes had turned a deeper shade of intensity.

"Well…look what the cat dragged in - you're all wet," the statue in the window finally turned and astutely observed as a puddle formed on the floor round John.

"No sh*t, Sherlock!" John griped. "It's raining cats and dogs outside in case your powers of observation have gone on vacation."

"Is that supposed to be sarcastic?" Sherlock calmly queried with a languid blink of his eyes.

"Oh, never mind." John set down his shopping bag. "Guess what I found while I was out?" He towelled off his mess of soaked hair. As his organic state of affairs became drier, his mood improved and a mischievous grin replaced his former irritated frown.

"No, idea; no data," Sherlock answered without even a second glance at the package on the table. "I assume it's something boring like milk or soap." He sighed and slid over to the sofa where he curled up into a morose ball of dark ennui.

"What a prick! You're absolutely no fun. You could at least guess."

"You know I never guess. I've told you before, it's destructive to the logical faculties."

"Whatever…" John scowled. "You might want to consider making that a more relative principle; could help with some of the boredom."

"What exactly are you trying to imply?" The chiselled features of the detective turned sharply on John.

"Nothing. Forget it." He lowered his eyes and settled himself into a cushioned chair with a weary groan, closing his eyes.

"If you're so anxious for me to ascertain the contents of your shopping bag perhaps you ought to let the proverbial _cat out of the bag_ yourself," Sherlock countered, critically eyeing up the peculiar bulges of the parcel.

"I just thought it would be more liberating for that rocket of yours, _tearing itself to pieces, stuck on the launchpad_," his friend retorted without opening his eyes. "Don't bother yourself. I'll take care of it later." He shivered and calculated how much energy it would take to make a cup of hot tea. Concluding that the energy expended was beyond his reserves at the moment, he settled into a tired stillness.

However, ephemeral question marks floated in wavering wisps from the package on the table while he slept. They wafted over to Sherlock and flitted tantalizingly around his brain. Questions. Mystery. Unknowns. Dancing in endless, noiseless, circles around the bored detective. He couldn't stop obsessing about the contents. Sherlock squeezed his eyes tightly closed. He tried to block out the questions. "Stop, stop, stop," he tried not to think about the mystery on the table that John had seemed all excited about, enough that he'd asked him to figure out. "Obviously it's more than milk or soap," he concluded, "otherwise he'd never make a fuss about guessing. But what?" He scanned his databases and came up empty. There was nothing that John had mentioned recently that provided a clue as to an item he might have purchased on an ordinary rainy and dismal day in London. John appeared to be sleeping; perhaps he could sneak over and look into the bag? No, that would be conceding defeat. It would be admitting to a glitch in his infallible powers of deduction. He clenched and unclenched his hands in silent frustration. Finally, "John?"

"Yes?" his half-awake but now nearly dry partner yawned.

"Isn't there a saying, 'curiosity killed the cat'?"

John stretched and yawned again as he considered. "Yes, there is. Surprised you know it."

"Well, then, since you know it, why aren't you doing something about it? You don't want me to die, do you?"

"Oh, are you trying to say you're curious!" John teased with a slow satisfied smile spreading across his face.

"No," he replied with a somewhat wounded expression.

"Yes you are."

"Am not," he answered, sniffing significantly and feigning disinterest once again.

"You know the rest of the saying, 'satisfaction brought him back'," John smiled and looked over at the innocuous brown paper bag sitting humbly on the table.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He frowned while his brain tried to come to a rational resolution over John's puzzling shopping trip. A low, throaty rumble pitched forward from his chest but his body remained proudly stiff, alert, and immovable.

John's eyes drifted from his inquisitive flatmate and back to the table. He crossed his limbs and adjusted his weight in order to get more comfortable in his chair. He noted with approval that his hair was dry at last.

Sherlock's rising angst was almost palpable. If he'd been a cartoon, little black thunderclouds with flashing lightning bolts shooting down would have appeared over his head.

John considered his options. He was rather enjoying watching his flatmate's reaction. It was a rare occurrence. In fact, he wasn't sure he'd ever had a chance to observe this kind of reaction under such close laboratory conditions before. He considered taking notes.

The atmosphere in the room took a considerable dip in temperature though as the ice-coated, frosty glares from Sherlock increased.

Finally, taking mercy on his flatmate who was too proud to allow himself to resort to such fallible devices such as guessing, John offered a truce. "Ok, I'll tell you what's in the bag if you promise not to scrape away on your violin for at least one full week. Deal?"

The other snorted in disgust.

John waited.

Silence.

Ninety-three seconds later, a regrettable sigh escaped from the detective's lips. John secretly smiled to himself as he checked the clock.

"This is outrageous. Ridiculous," Sherlock grumbled.

"Deal, no violin for a week?"

"Fine," the dark haired partner consented grudgingly.

John uncoiled himself and arched his back as he hopped down from his resting chair and trotted over to the table. He pulled apart the brown paper. "Milk," he indicated a carton of the white liquid. "Note the expiration date," he nodded significantly at the stamped label on the container.

Sherlock grunted, unimpressed.

"And…" here John paused for a dramatic effect. "…This is a gift for you." He revealed a plain yellow manila folder and shifted it so his friend could see it better. "Mycroft helped, just a bit," he admitted unobtrusively as Sherlock ripped into the file.

The detective chose to forgo any snarky comments regarding this latter revelation as his eyes lit upon the contents of the file. A warm glow of anticipation coursed through his veins. A curious sense of appreciation and gratitude crept into his heart. Odd. His flatmate had certain powers of perception that he hadn't considered before. Fascinating. He tilted his head momentarily with a flicker of his eyes toward this friend of unexplored possibilities.

A flash of understanding radiated between the two. John winked, "cat got your tongue? What do you think?"

A pause, then a slow grin. "Perfect," he replied with sincerity. His face lit up with an impish look, "or, if I'm not mistaken (which I doubt since I never guess), this is most certainly the 'cat's pyjamas'"!

John laughed. "Yes, I suppose you could say that! Now, how about a game of cat and mouse… or shall I say cat and rat?!"

"Well, '_the game's afoo_t', as Holme's would say," the detective chuckled in return.

"Shall we?"

"Yes, let's go find the giant rat of Sumatra_ - for which the world was not yet prepared_. Perhaps it's prepared now."

"Perhaps? Only one way to find out…" John's whiskers twitched in eagerness. The rain had ceased and he scampered to catch up with his partner whose tail was just disappearing through the cat flap in the door (1).

~0~

"How'd you know?" Sherlock asked as the two sauntered along the alleyways.

"Well, you did mention the words 'dirty rat'," John explained.

"A rat and a case…best present ever!" Tails held high, the two felines dashed off in search of the famous giant rat.

… and here my tail, er… tale, ends. All that remains to be answered: Did they find the rat and was the world prepared?...

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(1). Apparently, Isaac Newton invented the cat flap during one of his experiments that required a pitch-black room. His cat, Spithead, kept opening the door and ruining his experiment. His newly invented cat flap kept both cat and scientist happy!

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed all the feline references! Descriptions inspired by my own model, Milo. Oh, and when Sherlock says he 'needs some' - I'm sure you've figured out by now he was asking for catnip!**


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